


Pass the Pork-Barrel Salt

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Supernatural, The West Wing
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-29
Updated: 2007-09-29
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:30:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: Finally, a fic that answers the question that has plagued fen for at least two years: Wheredothey get all that salt?Co-Written with Etakyma





	Pass the Pork-Barrel Salt

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2007.
> 
> Original Notes:   
> Set sometime post AHBL2, but playing holy hell with the West Wing timeline and set sometime during Season 2 in that. Note for non-West Wing viewers: There is a minor spoiler for the end of Season 1.  
>  **Disclaimers:** “The West Wing” was created by Aaron Sorkin and belongs to NBC. “Supernatural” was created by Eric Kripke and belongs to WB / CW. Smooshing them together happened because I’m a sick, sick woman (as Etakyma will attest).  
>  **Author’s notes:** This is crack. It’s been written for a while but we finally heard back from our beta, heidi8, who said go for it. Oh, and I swear to god the jumpsuit line was already in there before I ever saw "Roadkill." No, really.
> 
> **Note for non-Supernatural watchers:** You don't really need to know anything about "Supernatural" to enjoy this. You'll be just like Josh Lyman. ;^D  
>  **Note for non-West Wing Watchers:** All you need to know about “The West Wing” (to read this fic) is this:   
> _“Andrew Jackson, in the main foyer of his White House had a big block of cheese. The block of cheese was huge--over two tons. And it was there for any and all who might be hungry. Jackson wanted the White House to belong to the people, so from time to time, he opened his doors to those who wished an audience. It is in the spirit of Andrew Jackson that [the Chief of Staff], from time to time, ask[ed] senior staff to have face-to-face meetings with those people representing organizations who have a difficult time getting [their] attention.”_ *  
> (*Quote from “The Crackpots and These Women,” transcript from TwizTV, available here: [WW 1x05](http://www.twiztv.com/cgi-bin/thewestwing.cgi?episode=http://dmca.free.fr/scripts/thewestwing/season1/thewestwing-105.txt).)

The poltergeist screeched with anger even as it dissipated. Sam caught his breath, staring at the spot where the ghost had been. No matter how often they did this, Dean thought, Sammy just couldn’t get used to the fact that it worked.

Senator Higgins was so darn grateful, it just about made Dean want to hug. Well, hug the Senator’s wife, anyway. She was hot. But then the Senator said he was going to send them something, and not to leave D.C. for a bit, and well, Dean had to admit he was curious. Sam, of course, wanted to stay anyway - they hadn’t even been to half the monuments yet, and the Smithsonian? Dude, Sammy could probably die an old man there if Dean’d let him.

So Dean was happy to let them play tourist, for a while, although he did confess a little nervousness at the sheer number of local cops, federal officers, spooks, gooks, GI’s, and not to mention the damned Secret Service everywhere they seemed to go. Anyway, it was worth a little risk to have a U.S. Senator in one’s pocket. Provided the great state of Kansas saw fit to elect him for more than one term.

“Dean! You won’t believe this!” Sam said, coming in from the lobby of the hotel, where they had been told to check for mail.

“Senator gave us a check for $100,000?”

“No…a visit to the White House.”

Dean grimaced. “Oh, Sammy, no. No, no, no - I mean, how are we gonna get into the White House? Don’t they have to do a background check? And anyway, you really want to go?”

“No, Dean. Not like a tour of the White House. He got us a meeting at the White House.” Sam held up a typed page of letterhead stationery and a smaller envelope with passes in them. “He says he’s friends with Leo McGarry, the White House Chief of Staff, and he knows that one day every spring, Mr. McGarry has his senior staff take meetings with…well, with people who wouldn’t otherwise get meetings. He wants us to tell them what we do. He wants us to make the President aware that there are….”

“Things that go bump in the night?” Dean asked. Sam nodded, getting that earnest look on his face. “Oh, man, Sammy, they’re gonna kick us out so fast--” Dean stopped. “On the other hand,” he said, rising with the thought, unable to contain his own brilliance, “maybe this is a sign. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Sammy!” He took the letter out of his brother’s hands to read it himself.

“Dean? What’s your stupid plan?”

“Stupid? Hey, it’s not stupid. Here’s what I have in mind….”

~6~6~6~

Josh Lyman was feeling pretty good, all things considered. He was back up to his old running speeds, since the surgery, and the bullet wound didn’t even really show anymore. The polls were going well, Sam and Toby had actually agreed on the text for the President’s next press briefing, and Donna seemed in good enough spirits that she wasn’t even harrassing him much. So it was something of a shock when he was called into the Roosevelt Room, though he was happy to see that so was everyone else.

Leo stood up before them. “Andrew Jackson, in the main foyer of his White House….”

He couldn’t get any further before everyone was groaning.

“Leo, not another big block of cheese day!” Sam Seaborn said. “Didn’t we just have one last month?”

“No, Sam, but thanks for asking,” Leo replied icily. “I’m glad to know that it feels just like yesterday, though. Margaret will give you your lists, please try to refrain from laughing in their faces, okay? And people, remember: These are our citizens, too.”

~6~6~6~

Sam was pacing again. He reached the end of the waiting area and turned back, joining Dean where he sat on a red-pillowed bench. “I do all the talking, right?” Sam asked, for the fiftieth time.

“Sam. I got it. I won’t embarrass you in front of the Holy Grail of Government.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Sam said softly, sitting down next to Dean. Dean suppressed the urge to put him in a headlock and give him noogies like when they were kids. “I’m worried you’ll say something that will make them look further into our,” he lowered his voice, “fake backgrounds than necessary.”

“Relax, Sammy. From what I’ve seen of this administration, they’re morons. They’ll never know. Besides, you want to tell them the truth, so it’s not like--”

“There’s truth, and then there’s details, Dean. Just…let me do the talking.” He held Dean’s gaze with those damn puppy eyes.

Dean made a smoochy face at him, which had the desired effect: Sam rose in frustration and paced another length of the hall.

A leggy blonde came out with a clipboard and a pen. “Okay…Sam and Dean Walk--Whoops!” she said, dropping her pen when she looked up at them. “Hi.”

Dean smiled his most innocent predatory smile. He knelt to retrieve the pen. “You…dropped this.”

“Yeah. Thanks…. I’m…Donna Moss.”

“Hi, Donna. I’m Dean, and this is Sam.” He jerked his head over at Sam, but Donna barely looked away. How come no one ever told Dean that political girls were so easily impressed? Probably because all they ever saw were wussies and old men. Maybe wussy old men. Dean wondered if they’d be in D.C. long enough to make getting her number worth while. Then again, he thought, maybe he’d wait and see how the meeting went.

Donna recovered quickly, but not before Dean saw her eyes rake over him, and the slight flush in her cheeks.

“Great. Josh Lyman is going to see you, if you’ll just come with me….” She conducted them past a stanchion line and through a veritable warren of offices. As they walked, Donna went through the protocol for the meeting. Dean let Sam pay attention to that; he was too busy casing the place. Not for any real reason, of course; just out of habit.

At length they came to a hallway beyond a mini-cubicle farm surrounded by glass walls. Donna led them down the hall to a cozy office and introduced them to the Deputy Chief of Staff.

~6~6~6~

Josh glanced at his itinerary for his next appointment, setting aside unwanted images of the lobby for nude airline travel (ultimate security! the naturist guy assured him. Josh thought the real security was that no one in their right mind would have wanted to be naked with this creep). Sam and Dean Walker, no affiliation. Personal favor to Senator Aaron Higgins of Kansas? Maybe they had looked after his corn fields while the Senator got his first term under his belt. But then why not say they were from the farm lobby?

Donna knocked and brought in two young, decidedly healthy specimens, either one of whom would probably be welcome on a nude airplane, and introduced them as the Walkers. Josh stood to shake hands, ignoring Donna’s cat-that-caught-the-canary grin. From the disarming smile the shorter one gave her, Josh could tell he would have to put up with her embarrassing, teen-angel questions later on. But then, Josh thought, he just might understand why “the Walkers” might be cashing in their Senatorial pass….

“So,” he said, taking his seat again after waving Donna off, “What can I do for you? Let me guess--you just came from Massachusetts and you want your certificate upheld in Kansas?” he grinned.

The shorter one--Dean’s--eyes widened and he smirked, while the tall one--Sam’s--mouth opened a little. “You do the talking, Sammy,” Dean offered. It sounded like a reminder.

“Mr. Lyman, we’re…brothers,” Sam Walker said pointedly.

Josh’s grin faltered. “Oh. Well, that’s a little weird even for….”

Dean laughed, a sharp bark. Sam shot him a dark look. “No, we’re not…I mean, I support gay rights, but that’s got nothing to do with why we came to see you.”

“Of course not, I’m very sorry,” Josh said quickly. “Please, tell me why you did come to see me. The…White House staff, I mean,” he stammered.

“You see, my brother and I are in a very specialized line of work. We helped Senator Higgins out recently and I think he wanted to see if there might be any…federal assistance for our situation.” He stopped, letting the statement hang there as if Josh were supposed to immediately offer aid with no further information.

“Okay, well, maybe it would help if I know what that situation is. What or who exactly do you represent? I’m sorry, but the information I’ve been given on you two is very…sketchy, obviously, or I never would have assumed--”

“Oh, everybody does it, Mr. Lyman,” Dean said. “It’s ’cause Sam’s such a girl.” Sam glowered at him. “Sorry, Sam. Couldn’t resist. You do the talking.” Dean sat back, hands up in surrender. Yup: They were definitely brothers, and Josh could see it now. He guessed from this interplay that Dean was the elder, too.

“Anyway,” Sam said quickly, “Yeah, about that. We don’t really have an employer, or an affiliation. Truth is, there’s not too many people out there who do what we do, or even know about it.”

“O…kay,” Josh said. On any other day, he might begin to suspect that someone was winding him up--CJ, maybe, or Sam, or heck even Charlie. But this was “Big Block of Cheese Day,” license for the crazies, the kooks, and the worst conspiracy theorists the nation had to offer. “So what is it that you do?” he asked, feeling for all the world like the straight man in an old Vaudeville act.

“We’re hunters.”

“Hunters. So…you’re from the NRA? You could have just said so.” He didn’t care for the NRA before, and sure as hell not since Rosslyn, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t receive them.

Sam and Dean were looking at one another. Dean shrugged finally, with an expression that clearly gave permission to speak. Sam turned back to Josh, leaning forward earnestly.

“No. We’re not…that kind of hunter.”

Come to think of it, the NRA would hardly need Leo’s Funny Farm open-door policy just to gain entrance to the West Wing. “Okay. So, you don’t use guns, you mean? What are you, bow hunters?”

“Well, we use…look, the weapons aren’t the point. Well, kinda the point. See, we hunt…evil.” Again, Sam let the word hang there, like some bad movie tagline. Dean was biting back laughter.

“Evil?” Josh heard himself repeating. “What kind of evil?” _I can’t even believe I’m asking,_ he thought.

But Sam nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I know, it’s hard to swallow. But there are forces out there, and we hunt them down and…get rid of them. Ghosts and demons, mostly. Restless spirits, poltergeists--a poltergeist is what the Senator had. There’s other things, too--”

“Werewolves, shapeshifters, hell, even vampires,” Dean interjected with a chuckle. “Heh, vampires.”

“--We killed a wendigo a couple years ago and stopped a trickster and a djinn pretty recently,” Sam continued over his brother’s statement, “but it’s mostly demons since a few months ago.”

“Uh-huh,” Josh said, and he was really proud of himself for not laughing, though he could tell he was smiling wider than necessary. His face muscles hurt. “And what happened a few months ago, guys?”

“Well, it’s kind of a long story….”

“Aw, Sammy, it’s not that long,” Dean said, shifting in his chair. “We’d been tracking a demon that killed our mom a long time ago. And we got him, but not before he let a whole lot of others out into the world. So, we’ve sort of got a responsibility to stop them, seeing as how--”

“Dean,” Sam said, and Josh could hear the note of caution in his voice. “Mr. Lyman, look, like I said, I know this is pretty unbelievable stuff, but trust me, it’s real.”

Josh kept bobbing his head up and down, wondering whether he should call security or string them along. Maybe CJ really had decided to punk him. _Okay,_ he thought, _sure, I’ll play along for a bit. At least this is interesting._

“Hunters, huh? So, what’s the benefit package like for that line of work?”

Sam sighed. “It’s not exactly the kind of business that lends itself to a 401K.”

Dean added, “Or even old age.” It was apparently the wrong thing to say, because the look Sam fixed on his brother would have withered the blossoms off all the dogwoods in Virginia.

“Don’t even joke about that, Dean,” Sam said angrily.

Sensing a family row he really didn’t want to have happen in his office, Josh said brightly: “So, you're like the guys in _Poltergeist,_ with the recording equipment and the freaky psychic? Or is it more like the Ghostbusters?”

Both brothers swiveled their heads to look at him as if remembering where they were. “Ghostbusters,” they both said together. “But a little more…altruistic than that,” Sam added.

“Yeah, and no stupid containment chamber,” Dean commented. “Or jumpsuits. Unless Sam wants to play dress-up,” he added, earning another bitchy look from his brother.

“Oh.” Josh was decided: this had to be a prank. First off, they were way too good-looking to be anything but actors. Second, they were just too sanguine about it. In his experience, which he hoped to keep limited, the real crazies just had too much zeal for their beliefs. There was something fanatic about them, missing from these two. Actors, had to be. The only question was who had hired them. And the only way to figure out who hired these guys was to get them out and see who blinked.

“Are you guys hungry?” he asked, saying the first thing that came into his head. “I’m dying for something from the mess. C’mon, let me take you down there. Buy you some toasted marshmallows or something. Hey, can I see your proton pack?”

~6~6~6~

Sam glared at the proton pack comment, still smarting a little from Dean’s casual dismissal of hunter’s lives not being long ones. Thinking about Dad still hurt, and while he knew Dean was not unaffected, he had a tendency to gloss over any feelings that went any deeper than sarcasm and rage.

Following Josh Lyman through the west wing, he admired how quickly the man sidestepped and avoided near-collisions with others. Sam was aware of Dean still casing the place, and was amused that he could think there was anything here for them to hunt. This was not the sort of place any kind of supernatural creature would inhabit. For one thing it was too damn busy, and he was under no illusion that nighttime was quiet – quieter perhaps. Four hallways and two sets of stairs later they reached what had to be the “mess.”

It was a smallish room, with kitchen access along one wall and food stations set all around. There were a few scattered people eating while concentrating on files or other work. Josh escorted them through a couple of food stations and sat them down in the center of the room. Dean was annoyed that Josh had taken the seat that faced the door, so he angled his seat so he could also keep an eye on the only exit he could see. Sam glared for a moment, but dutifully sat down with his back to the door.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit more about this ‘monster hunting’ you do?” He even did that weird thing with the air quotes. Sam was getting a little annoyed at that. Sure, what they did was far-fetched, but there was no reason to mock them.

“Well,” Sam began. “We generally only hunt the evil things. Things that prey on people.”

“Preys on people, huh?” Josh thought a moment. Sam could almost see him replaying their conversation in his mind. “How does a djinn prey on people? Aren’t they all like genies? Rub a lamp, get three wishes? You know ‘phenomenal cosmic powers; itty-bitty living space.’”

“Ah…” Sam paused, trying to place the reference. “What?” He glanced at Dean, whose confused shrug meant he hadn't caught it, either. “No. The race of the djinn are evil. They feed on a person’s life force. It reads your mind enough to know the deepest desire of your heart, and will trap you in your mind. You believe that the world has changed and you are living out your dearest wish, all the time it is slowly milking you of your life’s energy and blood. A smart djinn can ration its prey - keep you around for weeks if it wants to.” Sam abruptly stopped. He’d laid it out so clinically. Just the way he had in his hunting journal. But in the distancing himself from the way his brother had almost died, he’d stuck his great big foot squarely in his mouth. _Damn it!_ Flushing in embarrassment, Sam glanced at Dean and saw he looked a little green.

Per usual, Dean brushed it off with a barely noticeable shake of his shoulders. “And then there’s the ghosts, poltergeists, and angry spirits. I like to call them the salt-and-burn crowd.”

Sam decided not to fight Dean while he was in this sarcastic mood. And he did owe him for the djinn description. “As opposed to the once-human-still-on-this-plane-eating-people crowd. Knives, guns, and decapitation usually works well there. Vampires, werewolves, wendigos are usually in this group,” Dean continued.

“Wendigo? What the heck is a wendigo?” Josh looked intrigued in spite of himself.

“It's a creature that was once human, a cannibal that lives for a really long time. Fast and strong, it tends to hunt people. Josh, about the thing….”

Sam nearly leapt out of his seat at the feminine voice. Dean smirked at him, but then Dean had known that the willowy blonde was creeping up on him.

“Dude, your face!” Dean chuckled evilly.

“You could have warned me.” Sam hissed at him. She could have been hurt, creeping up on a hunter like that.

Dean mouthed “You’re unarmed” at him and sat back, stuffing a whole cookie into his mouth. Sam hadn’t found a situation yet that would put Dean off his feed.

Josh was staring up at Donna with a sort of glazed look in his eye. He completely missed the brothers’ by-play.

“Donna – What?”

She was holding a group of color-coded files in one hand and was staring at his companions. She slowed down her response so he could keep up. “Creature. Cannibal. Not human. Lives freakishly long. Hunts people. And did I mention cannibal?”

“Wait!” Sam’s mouth hung open. “How did you _know_ that?”

The expression in Dean’s eyes went a little soft. _It figured,_ Sam thought: not only was she hot, she knew about the supernatural.

“I grew up in Wisconsin.” She rolled her eyes. “What? It’s a big secret or something? Josh. The Thing?” She gestured vaguely to the files in her arms.

“Okay, Donna. Give me a few.” Donna slid one of the files onto the table under Josh’s elbow and walked back the way she came, out of Sam’s field of vision. Dean watched her carefully as she left.

“Sorry,” Josh said. “That was Donna’s way of reminding me that I have other appointments. But this is interesting; tell me more.”

~6~6~6~

Donna left the most innocuous of her files with Josh and walked back through the mess. He did have appointments backing up, but she wasn’t really all that upset that he was keeping the brothers Walker longer than their allotted time. The men Josh had drawn for Big Block of Cheese Day were hot. A little weird, but then, who wasn’t just a little strange? Besides, the one with the short hair and green eyes was so her type. She wondered if maybe they’d be staying in Washington for a while….

“Donna, who’s Josh talking to?” Carol asked, waylaying her in the doorway of the mess. Carol had three coffees in a carry tray.

“Their names are Sam and Dean Walker. Cute, huh?”

“I’ll say. Why are they here?”

“Senator Higgins gave them a recommendation.”

Carol nodded. “Not often we get Big Blockheads that are so….”

“Delicious?” Donna murmured.

“Mm,” Carol took a sip of her coffee.

“Which one do you like?” Donna asked, feeling suddenly a little threatened.

“Oh, the taller one. Look at that jaw….”

“Really? Shaggy hair has never really done it for me. Now the other one? Totally.”

“Hm. Do Bonnie and Ginger know?”

“I haven’t told them, but you know, they had to walk by to get here,” Donna offered.

“True…. Well, I should get this coffee back upstairs. Coming?”

“Yes,” Donna said unhappily.

~6~6~6~

Dean was getting a little tired of this pencil-dick asking pointless questions. He was winding Sam up, he was sure. The guy seemed way too genuinely _interested_ , the way a psychiatrist would probably prick up his ears and think “Pulitzer” at half the stories they might tell.

He was also acutely aware of just how many guards, Marines, and Secret Service agents there were in this building, and while it had been fun at first, it was making him distinctly nervous now. They were attracting too much attention, in Dean’s opinion. And that had him worried, too, because usually Sam was the one who cared about flying under the radar. But with Sam earnestly answering Mr. Lyman’s questions, they could be here all day. Dean decided it was time to take charge.

“Okay, so…say I’ve got a, what did you call it, a vengeful spirit in my apartment,” Lyman was saying. “How do I protect myself?”

“Well, salt is a pretty basic protection against spirits,” Sam told him. “But to get rid--”

“Salt. Like table salt? Just sprinkle a ghost with salt and it what, goes back to Oz?”

Dean leaned forward. “It's less a ‘sprinkling’ and more a ‘blasting.’”

“Blasting? You mean...?” he asked, miming a rifle with both hands.

“Yep,” Dean told him with satisfaction. “Good ol' shotgun. Can't get much better than a double barrel sawed off shotgun, filled with salt. I call mine Bessie.”

Sam fixed Dean with his best bitchface. “Dean!”

Dean grinned at his brother. “Dude, you need to lighten up. But it doesn't exactly get rid of the ghost,” he told Lyman.

The politician balked. “What! Then why use the salt at all?”

“Anything that buys you some time to get to the bones of the dead is a good thing, believe me, Mr. Lyman,” Sam said, with another pissy look at Dean. “Which kinda brings us back to why we’re here.”

Lyman’s smug smile froze. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…. You mentioned federal assistance. For ghostbusting? I don’t think we can make that fly. I mean, what are we going to tell people?” He pushed up from the table. “Mind if we walk back up to my office? Donna’s going to bust a seam if I get more than half an hour behind schedule.”

“Sure,” Sam said, and he and Dean trailed after their escort.

“See, we were thinking maybe there’d be a way to subsidize our efforts,” Sam continued as they walked up the stairs. Dean let him talk about the business aspects; Sam was always better at legal-speak than he was. They passed a tall redhead and Dean turned to watch her descend, struck again by how many of the staff here were total hotties.

“Yeah, I sympathize, but you know, President Bartlet is not exactly the best friend of the NRA. I don’t see how I can convince anyone in this administration to provide you with weapons.”

Dean huffed a little, catching Sam’s eye. He’d figured this was a long shot from the start. Lyman led them into the communications bullpen. Was it Dean’s imagination, or were there more women in here than there had been earlier? Three ladies, all quite attractive, were leaning on the doorjamb near the glass wall. There was a black girl with long curls, a brunette with straight, sleek hair, and a very tall strawberry blonde.

“C.J., are you working today?” Lyman asked the tall woman.

“Yeah, we’re…looking--I mean, working,” she said. “Carol, I need figure on beefcake--I mean, beef prices over the last month,” she said to the brunette. “Carol” jerked herself away with a muttered acknowledgement, and the third woman also came out of her trance, bustling back to her desk.

“C.J.,” Lyman continued, “do you think we could convince the President to put two demon hunters on staff?”

“Depends, are the demons Republican?” she fired back, walking along with them in the same direction her assistant had gone. “Josh, you know you have to meet with the Vice President’s Chief of Staff at ten?”

“Yeah, I know. Just finishing up this meeting. Dean, Sam, this is our Press Secretary, C.J. Cregg,” he said politely.

Dean held up his hand in greeting. Sam offered his to shake.

“Hi,” C.J. said, and then, “Excuse me, I’m just…getting ready for a press briefs--I mean briefing.” She turned and walked down the short hallway to her office. Dean could have sworn she breathed, “Cute,” and when the door shut, he definitely heard some giggling.

Lyman ushered them back into his office and shut the door. “Yeah, see? Your line of work…well, there’s a reason there’s no dental plan. You do understand?”

“Oh, sure,” Dean said with a grimace, ignoring Sam’s understanding look. “That’s why we’ve never bothered trying to get paid before.”

“If you don’t mind my asking…how do you earn a living?”

Sam got that pained expression that Dean thought always looked like he needed more fiber. He jumped in to save his brother his misery.

“Oh, a variety of ways, most of which you don’t want to know about. You’d be surprised how good you get at making money under the table.”

“You mean…crime?”

Dean’s mouth quirked. “No, no, of course not,” he said quickly. “But you know…poker, darts, the occasional honest job….” He winked at Sam.

“Okay,” Lyman said, grinning, “Yeah. I don’t want to know. Well, look. Is there anything the White House could provide, or is this where you tell me that Toby put you up to this and I owe him twenty bucks?”

Dean grinned right back. “You do owe him a twenty. I can take it to him.”

Sam hit his arm. “Dean! Mr. Lyman, honestly: no one put us up to this. And there is one thing that you can provide, that won’t really be a hardship, or take a lot of explaining.”

“What’s that, fellas?” he asked.

“Rock salt,” Dean said, at the same time that Sam said it, too.

“Rock salt?”

“Yeah, rock salt,” Dean said again.

“Right…because salt is a spirit deterrent,” Lyman said. Had to hand it to him, he was good at picking up the details.

“Sure thing. Hustling pool is alright, but halite ain't cheap, y'know. At least, not in the quantities we go through.”

“We were thinking, if we could just get a license, or a commission, or something, to collect small quantities of rock salt from any State Highway Department facility, that would help us out a lot,” Sam chimed in seamlessly. Dean schooled his face not to smile too broadly. Lyman was primed, and Dean thought for a crazy moment that this might actually pay off.

“Yeah, you could slip it in under Homeland Security, who’s gonna notice?”

Lyman smiled. “You’re seriously telling me you’d be happy with a couple bags of rock salt?”

Dean looked at Sam, who smiled back. They both faced Lyman and nodded.

~6~6~6~

Donna typed up the request on Josh’s memo paper and stopped. “Josh?” she called, rising to walk to his office.

“Yeah?”

“A Presidential License to Collect Rock Salt from any State Highway Dept. facility, to be issued to Sam and Dean Walker?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t those the two Blockhead guys? The really ho… the ones who knew about wendigoes?” Donna asked, leaning oh-so-casually on Josh's door frame.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re giving them a Presidential License to collect Rock Salt.”

“Yeah.”

“Um…Why?”

Josh shrugged. “It’s cheaper than paying them and we can’t explain giving them weapons.”

“But…didn’t you say they were whack jobs?”

“Total whack jobs. I was certain C.J., Sam, or Toby had paid them to jerk my chain.” He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “Turns out not. Yeah, they’re crazy, but you know? So we salt their driveway for the next four years. No big deal. What can it hurt?”

“You usually don’t give in to Blockheads, that’s all.”

Josh shrugged. “I know, but…these two guys, they believed in it so strongly. They had a really good patter, too.”

“And they were really cute,” Donna breathed.

“Well, okay, but that’s not really important to me. Now if Buffy and Faith had come in asking….” His eyes glazed over for a moment. Donna cleared her throat. “Right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s gonna be like, what, twenty pounds of salt? So what?”

Donna shrugged. “Okay,” she said, and went back to her computer to finish typing it up.

For the next six months, Donna received invoices from Nebraska, North Dakota, South Dakota, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New York. She put each invoice in a file labeled “Walker: Blockhead Salt” and kept them for the semi-annual budget review. A week before Josh’s meeting with the Committee on Ways and Means, she dumped the file on Josh’s desk. She wasn’t surprised at all when, a few hours later, Josh yelled: “Donna! Why are we being billed for four tons of rock salt?”

~End~


End file.
